


Third Drawer Down

by HooperMolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HooperMolly/pseuds/HooperMolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a drawer in Greg's filing cabinet that he's kept locked ever since he received that phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Drawer Down

It’s almost midnight on Friday when Greg finally pushes away the file he was going over and allows himself to switch workmode off. He’s the only one left in this part of the office, everyone else left in the early evening. 

From the second top drawer in his desk he brings out the whiskey and glass that he keeps hidden in there for nights like these. He’s almost certain that Sally knows about it, but she hasn’t bought it up with him yet. 

She will. She always does when she’s worried about him. She’s good like that, leaving him space to breathe but charging in if she thinks he’s in immediate danger. 

She’s one of the few things he has left now. His marriage has fallen to pieces, he’s clinging on to his position as detective inspector by a thread, and one of the few people he truly cared about was dead. 

Instinctively, Greg glanced into the corner where a short filing cabinet sat, eyes focusing on the bottom drawer which he kept locked. No one was allowed to look in there, few ever asked. 

The whiskey burned, and it wasn’t as cold as he liked, but he wasn’t in the mood to fuss about trying to find ice in the kitchen. Almost unconsciously he found his hand going to the pocket on his shirt where he kept the key. 

He hadn’t opened the drawer for a while because he hadn’t been ready. He wasn’t sure that he was ready now. 

The first glass of whiskey was gone too quickly, so he poured another, followed by another. His fingers fiddled with the key as he drank, twirling it around and over and under. 

With three drinks under his belt, the feelings of dread began to fade and melt into the shadows. It was time to open the drawer. 

Greg tried bending over but it made his back ache and his legs wobble, so he contented himself with sitting on the floor beside the cabinet. There was a brief stab of hesitation as he inserted the key into the lock, but it went as quickly as it came. 

With a quick twist the drawer was unlocked and he slid it out. It wasn’t a very full drawer, containing only a loose collection of objects scattered across the bottom, a book, and a hat. 

He grabbed the hat first, and laughed as he thought of the contempt that Sherlock had for the fact that the hat had begun to define his image in the public eye. 

This one had been sent to Baker Street by a well intentioned fan, and in his annoyance Sherlock had foisted it off onto Lestrade. He’d probably expected Greg to burn it, rather than keep it, but that was sentiment for you. 

There were multiple sets of cufflinks that had been gifts to Sherlock for solving crimes, and even a beautiful tie pin, that the consulting detective had also given him rather than simply tossing into the bin. 

Then there was the flash drive that he’d gotten Sally to copy the video of a drugged Sherlock onto, to make sure that no one could accidentally come across it when helping Greg decipher how to work his phone. 

Finally there was the book, a collection of newspaper articles mentioning a case that Sherlock was involved with that he had carefully cut out of the paper and documented. 

Opening the book, he let out a strangled cry and almost closed it again, as a picture of Sherlock staring slightly to the left of the camera with his collar turned up looked out at him from the centre of the page. 

He flipped through the book slowly, sometimes laughing, sometimes shaking his head and remembering how frustrating a particular case was. Until he got to the last page. 

The page that contained the obituaries. 

All the feelings that he’d been trying to bury in paperwork and whiskey came flooding to the surface as he swallowed heavily. 

Suddenly he was transported back to that night when he received that phone call. The anger, the hurt, the confusion, and the sadness, it all come stampeding back and threatened to overwhelm him. 

Then the page was wet and he realised he was crying. 

Upset, both with himself and with Sherlock, he slammed the book closed and threw it back into the drawer. 

He locked it, safely stowing the key back in the pocket of his shirt where it belonged. 

He wanted answers. He wanted assistance. But most of all he wanted his friend. 

Blinking back the tears and stiffening his upper lip, he poured himself another whiskey and sat back down in his chair, part of him hoping that against all odds Sherlock would walk in through the door just so that he could punch him in the face. 

But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. 

That’s what hurt worst of all.


End file.
